


Of Masks And Men

by defractum (nyargles)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Magic, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 07:22:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3348551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/pseuds/defractum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre runs a secret organisation that smuggles slaves out of the country and into the South, where there is no slavery. Grantaire is tasked to stop him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Masks And Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [guineamania](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guineamania/gifts).



> For the Les Mis Holidays exchange, and the prompt: "I would quite like something to do with slavery would be nice cause there isn't enough. No crack or PWP though please"

This place is disgusting. Grantaire pulls his neckscarf to cover his nose and mouth, and breathes shallowly, nausea churning in his stomach at the smell.

He'd made the mistake of throwing out a hand to steady himself when he'd first got down here, unsteadied by the foot or so of water slopping around his calves, and then grimaced at the slime that had smeared itself across his palm. He'd wiped it off carefully with a handkerchief, and then abandoned the handkerchief itself to the sewer.

If the matter wasn't life or death, as in literally the fate of people's lives, he would have turned back. But it is, and so he perseveres. Also, he's getting paid for this.

When Grantaire hits a fork in the sewer tunnels, he pulls up the enchanted compass – it swings towards the left and he follows it dutifully. Faintly, he hears voices up behind the next bend and slows down. He draws his short sword and pockets the compass, hiding the light of his torchstone in a pocket where it quickly becomes a warmth that bounces against his thigh.

There's no helping the slosh of his steps, but Grantaire does what he can. The bend keeps curving, likely avoiding the foundations of a building that existed before the sewage system, and up ahead Grantaire sees a faint light reflected off the sewer walls. It disappears suddenly as do the voices, and Grantaire freezes in return. The sewer is silent again, apart from the sound of a steady trickle of sludge water. It's really hard to catch someone by surprise when every step is accompanied by a wet _schluck, schluck_ as the sewage attempts to suck his boots down.

"Who's there?" Grantaire calls out eventually. No response. "I saw your torchstone light." He walks forward, foregoing the stealth for speed now, his short sword held loosely at his side and the tip carefully above the water level.

There's a flurry of alarmed movement from further down the tunnel and the previous strained peace of the tunnel fills instead with the sounds of splashing, echoed and amplified, a cacophony in Grantaire's ears until he can't tell if there's a few people up ahead, or – "Whoa."

Grantaire gets into sight, at last, and there are far more people than he expected. Over twenty that he can see, eyes gleaming out of the darkness to look at him in distress, and more further down that he can't see.

"Stop," says a voice, and then a shadow is moving out to block Grantaire's way. "You'll have to go past me if you wish to get to them."

Grantaire frowns. The voice is familiar to him, but he can't quite place it – he pulls his torchstone out. "Combeferre?!"

–

_The mask and the drink make Grantaire bold._

_"May I have this dance?" Grantaire has been watching the handsome stranger for a while. He dances when he's asked to, but more often than now, he simply drifts around the room, stopping to talk to people here and there, and watches the dancers go past._

_The stranger regards him for a moment, no doubt trying to see if he can recognise Grantaire in return behind his half-mask and the feathers threaded into his hair. "I would be delighted," he says in a rumbling deep voice that warms Grantaire's bones. Grantaire curls his fingers lightly around the offered hand, sliding them in between the other couples on the ballroom floor, and they let the music dictate their movements for the next few moments, moving apart, and then flowing back together to press their palms together._

– – –

"Grantaire," says Combeferre, his visage surely as startled as Grantaire's is.

Grantaire recalls those same lips, parted as before, though it had been for a very different reason then. "Are – you a slade trader?" he asks weakly. Things start to fall into place – the urgent, shuffling people behind them, the wide eyes and striken glances that they shoot him when he thinks he's not looking, and the way they keep walking down the tunnel, slow and careful and keeping their torchstones dim.

"No!" Combeferre recoils from him, and even in the dim light, Grantaire can see the indignation writ upon his face. He shakes his head and repeats, quieter, “No.”

“Then why are you here? With –”

“They're not slaves,” says Combeferre, his voice steady and low like Grantaire remembers it. It's disarming how quickly the man can ground himself. “Not anymore.”

The bottom of Grantaire's stomach lurches. “You're – You _can't_.”

“I can,” says Combeferre. “Are you here to stop me?”

Grantaire laughs, a hollow echo of a sound that flings itself shamelessly through the tunnels until it rings in Grantaire's ears, distorted and bitter. “As if I could hope to stop you.”

– – –

“ _Don't stop on my account,” says the stranger after he fumbles the dance steps. Twice._

_Grantaire carefully pushes him in the right direction. “You're – not from around here,” he says. He has dark hair over the top of his simply decorated face mask, and a strong jawline, both of which are striking enough that Grantaire can be sure that he's not anyone Grantaire knows; he can recognise all the nobles from the area even behind the façade of the masquerade, and there's no one who would be caught having not learnt the steps of the latest, most fashionable dance._

“ _A keen observation,” says the stranger. “I'm actually here on business.”_

_They sway apart, and circle each other. When they next move in to link their arms, Grantaire licks his lips. "And perhaps... to enjoy yourself a little?” His voice is not like molten silk, not like his dance partner's, but Grantaire makes do with a low purr instead. “I confess, dancing is not exactly my forte either. I find it more of a... prelude.”_

_"Well." A smile curls across full lips, a warm hand settles at the small of his back; and Grantaire finds himself staring quite improperly. "Perhaps a little."_

– – –

Combeferre just looks at him, one eyebrow inched above the other, and he doesn't even have to say a word before Grantaire can feel the explanations bubbling up out of him. “Well, as I'm sure you fair well know, slaves have been going missing over the last few days.” He smiles, crookedly, and Combeferre snorts. “A few is no matter – most houses would wish to keep that private, in case their slaves had been negligent or tried to run away – but enough went missing that it came before the city council. There was an entire group scheduled for auction today – which, again, I'm sure you know. I've been tasked with finding them.”

“And bringing them back,” says Combeferre.

“And bringing them back,” confirms Grantaire.

“Tell them the slaves are gone already. Past the borders.”

Grantaire narrows his eyes, and his hand twitches automatically, bringing the point of his sword up, but Combeferre doesn't flinch. “Why would I do that?”

“Because that would give us the time to escape.”

Grantaire snorts. “Slaves are marked when they come into the market, Combeferre. They'll be identifiable as slaves for the rest of their lives.”

“We don't have slaves in the South.The concept does not exist.”

Grantaire smiles absently. “I knew you weren't from around here.” He sobers. “So you're telling me to go back to the city council and tell them I've failed. Put myself in disgrace and on the wrong side of several of the most powerful Houses in the city. Again, tell me why I should do that? What's in it for me? Are you bribing me to keep your secret?”

“I do not think I would have to bribe you,” says Combeferre steadily, and reaches out to stroke Grantaire's face – Grantaire flinches back, stumbling as he does, and only Combeferre's fist in the front of his tunic saves him from landing on his backside in the sewage.

– – –

“ _Take this off,” says the stranger, hands yanking at Grantaire's undershirt._

_Grantaire shivers, a sensation nothing to do with the cool air across his skin as together, they forcibly pull him out of his clothes. “I'm trying, give a man points for not being distracted by your face.”_

“ _My face?” Amusement colours the voice._

“ _Your face,” confirms Grantaire, sliding the tip of his tongue up the line of the sharp jawline before nuzzling in to the soft, warm skin at the top of his neck. “I don't even know your name.”_

“ _Combeferre. And you are Grantaire.”_

 _Grantaire laughs, surprised and delighted. “You have done your research!” He leans back in, his mouth close to Combeferre's ear. “Combe_ ferre _,” he says, trying the name out. It rolls, thick and sensuous, out of his mouth. He suspects he'll have many chances to say it again tonight._

– – –

“Thank you,” mutters Grantaire as he rights himself, because he's not entirely without manners. He scrubs at his face with one hand. “Your advantage over me is unfair. I find myself entirely incapable of wanting to disappoint you.”

They stand, in the stink of the sewer and the half-light of a torchstone, in silence for a while. This is farewell then. Grantaire had thought that he had come to terms with this when he had awoken the next morning to find no handsome stranger in his bed, just stubble rash across his thighs and a plain mask resting on the pillow next to him, and his search throughout the city for a Combeferre had brought no one to light.

"Come with me," says Combeferre, and he holds his hand out. Grantaire stares at it, and then looks up; Combeferre's face is sincere.

"I shouldn't," says Grantaire.

Combeferre wiggles his fingers, the first sign of impatience. "Since when has that ever stopped you?”

Grantaire smiles, and slides his hands through; Combeferre interlaces their fingers, pulling them forward into the darkness, where the rest of the company have left them far behind to have their private moments. Combeferre smiles, and Grantaire catches the edge of it in shadows. “You'll love the South. Not a masquerade ball in sight.”


End file.
